Against My Will I Stay Out
by nothing-rhymes-with-ianto
Summary: 8 Years post series. Justin has to come to Pittsburgh to help Brian. For the prompt "Gus shows up at Justin's NY loft."
1. Chapter 1

**Honestly, this first chapter just came to me after reading the prompt and I have no idea where the hell I'm going with the rest of this, so chapters might be a little while in coming up while I think of a plot.**  


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Justin heard a knock at the door and wondered who it was. Most of his friends had keys, and so they'd just unlock the door and wander in, no matter what or who he was doing. And the mail guys never made the trek up to his tenth-floor apartment. He got up, stubbing out his cigarette on the way, and went to answer the door. He opened the door and blinked rapidly, frowning, trying to process the person standing in front of him. He and Brian hadn't spoken in nearly three years, and now a miniature version of his ex-lover was standing on his doorstep.

"Hi, Justin." Gus pushed his way inside. Always confident and straightforward, just like his father. Justin allowed a rueful smile on his face for a moment before turning around to look at the boy.

"Hi, Gus. What are you doing here?" Justin was really confused. "Shouldn't you be with your moms in Toronto?"

"Uh, we moved back to Pittsburgh, like, practically two years ago." Gus's voice was petulant. For a thirteen year old kid, he sounded old. Justin wondered fleetingly if Brian had sounded like this when he was Gus's age. He'd probably been worse.

"Oh." He blinked again. He realized that he really hadn't checked in on the old gang at all. The only person he really kept in contact with was Daphne, and she was in Massachusetts. "So, uh…."

"Why am I here." Justin nodded. "Hmm, well, let's see. One day, my mom convinced your boyfriend to jack off in a cup and…" he trailed off, grinning. Justin rolled his eyes and ignored the impulse to tell him that Brian was _not_ his boyfriend. Gus was definitely Brian's son. The boy's face grew more serious, his eyes darkened in a way that Justin was all too familiar with. "It's Dad. Brian. He….the…" Gus looked up, away. He voice grew quieter, darker. "The cancer came back. They caught it in its early stages, before any major damage, but….We don't think he's going to go through radiation. He's distancing himself from everyone. We never see him at the diner, apparently he doesn't go to Babylon much any more, and he hardly ever comes to the family dinners. He spends so much of his time in his loft or at work, alone. Cynthia says that after you left for good, it was like he had nothing left to live for. She said he's different than he used to be. I don't really remember him in any way but the way he is now, but everyone says it's like he's crumbled. They all say he seems broken."

"Gus, I don't-"

"I know. I know you haven't seen any of them in years. But, they talk about you all the time. Gramma Debbie keeps every article written about you and sticks them in a scrapbook or on the fridge. Uncle Mikey has all these ideas for his comic that he keeps hidden behind his desk at Red Cape. I found them once. I learned a lot about you from them. But Dad…Dad won't talk about you. When the family mentions your name, he walks out of the room. They're real careful not to talk about you when he's around."

Justin looked down. He still thought about Brian all the time. Many of his pieces were still about Brian. He knew the pain that Brian was going through. He hated to talk about him, because that just made him want to hop on a plane and go home to Pittsburgh and he knew he couldn't do that, not anymore, even if he was a success. Justin shuffled his feet. He had no idea how he could feel uncomfortable under the gaze of this boy seventeen years his junior. He decided that maybe it was okay to confide in Gus.

"I don't know if I can go back. If I go to Pittsburgh, I'll have to stay. Once I'm back there, I won't be able to leave."

"So? You're a success here, right?"

Justin paused. "Yeah."

"And you could paint from anywhere, right?"

"Yeah." God, he sounded just like his father.

"And you still love Brian, right?"

"Yeah."

"So come home. Please. Maybe you can talk some sense in to him, or something."

Justin shrugged. "Gus, we didn't exactly part on the best of terms." He was glad that Gus was a mini version of Brian, older and more knowledgeable than most kids his age. It meant he could talk to him like an adult.

"Justin, please. He still loves you. I know it. You can convince him not to let himself waste away."

"When your dad puts his mind to something, you can't exactly force him to change it."

"I can't. They can't. But you can. They all said it worked before. They say you changed everything. I know he still loves you. Because the only time I've ever heard him talk about you willingly was when he told me that you named me on the night you guys met. And his face, his eyes, when he talks about you…."

"I know." Justin could imagine the soft expression that Brian used to wear often. He knew what Gus was talking about. He'd seen Brian wear it around Gus when he was still in diapers, he'd seen it in the weeks before he left.

"Will you come back? Please? You can always come back to New York afterward."

Justin sighed and shoved a hand through his hair. He had the money. He had just finished an exhibition, and had nothing lined up right now. He was using his free time to do his own stuff. But going back…..going back would open up so many healed wounds, would bring back so many happy memories. It had been six years since he'd been back. He didn't know. Justin wandered into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam that was sitting on the counter next to the fridge.

Gus gave a little grin. "He's rubbed off on you, I see."

"I lived with him for five years. He's rubbed off on me in a lot of ways, Gus."

"You mean like that?" He pointed to a painting on the wall of the kitchen near the window, where the light was good. It was a slashing, swirling abstract of green and brown and black and amber and gold. "Don't think I don't know what that is. I've seen it many times. It's in my genes."

"God, Gus." Justin shook his head in disbelief. "You are just like him."

Gus gave him a shit-eating grin, a clone of his father's. "I know. That's what everybody says. So will you come?"

Justin rubbed a hand over his face and glanced around. What was here in New York for him, anyway? He had friends here but no real family like the one in the Pitts, he wasn't attached to this apartment, and he'd managed to suck every bit of inspiration from this city. And it wasn't like he'd had a relationship in the last few years. He really could paint from anywhere. Maybe it was time to go home. But, Christ, it would be hard. It would bring up things he'd tried to push down, away, forget about. He sighed and nodded.

"Yeah, I guess I'll come. I won't promise to stay, but I'll go back for a little while. But give me a little while, okay? I have to pack and call a few people and buy a plane ticket."

"Oh, don't bother with the ticket. I already have yours." Justin stared at him. "I was pretty sure you'd come. Uncle Ben said you love him enough. Gramma Debbie thought you'd come down in a heartbeat. And Uncle Mikey made some joke about you two being like magnets."

Justin wasn't surprised at that. For some reason, his family had the utmost optimism when it came to the fucked up relationship he and Brian had had. "Okay. Well, let me get my stuff in order."

Gus dropped down on his couch and put his feet up on the glass coffee table, grabbing the remote and turning on the television. Justin winced at the incredible familiarity of the actions, then sighed. He'd have to get used to this all over again in order to see Brian. He'd have to get used to feeling the pain in his gut all over again.

Justin packed slowly, wondering when it would truly catch up with him that he was actually going back to Pittsburgh. Back home. He found it funny that he still thought of it as "home," when he hadn't been back there in six years. He packed randomly, just picking up clothes and shoving them in his duffle. He stopped for a moment and looked at the black bag. It was just one of the many things he still had that held such a history. It was the black duffel that his mother had given Brian the first time he'd moved in with him. It was the black duffle he'd taken with him each time he'd moved out, each time he'd left. It depressed him to realize that he could actually say _"each time_."

Gus poked his head in. "Come on. Let's go. We don't have all fucking day."

"You have you're father's mouth, you know that?"

"Actually, it's him and Mel." Justin snorted. Figures.

He zipped up his black duffle and grabbed his cell, following Gus outside and hailing a cab. He called work, the gallery, his agent, told them he was going away for a little while, family troubles. They understood.

*************

Justin sat on the plane, staring out the window beside him at the dark ground below. Gus had tuned him out, putting headphones on and blocking out the world around him. Justin wished he could do that, too.

With quiet resignation, he let his thoughts drift back to that night three years ago, when he'd left for good.

Brian had been visiting for the weekend. Justin had stopped altogether his visits to Pittsburgh after the second year. He just didn't have enough time or money. So Brian was the one flying back and forth, and though Justin's invitations for him to come up were become less and less frequent, neither of them mentioned it.

Brian was packing up to fly home. They had fought a little earlier in the day about Justin coming home for his mother's birthday. Justin said he wasn't coming back to Pittsburgh, not anymore. Now Brian looked up as if to say something, his mouth set in a grim line. Justin knew by his expression what it would be.

"Justin…" Justin didn't want to hear it. He fought the urge to run a weary hand over his face. Brian stared at him, hard, hazel eyes boring into his skin, expectant, also weary, as if he knew what was coming, and was trying so hard to will it away, to deny it.

"Brian, I belong here. And….this, this thing with you flying back and forth every few months to see me for a weekend, it just….it doesn't work. I…" Justin had long ago realized that he'd lost or forgotten parts of the Brian Kinney Operating Manual, even before he'd left. He couldn't push as hard. He didn't know Brian as well as he used to. It hurt not to be able to read him any longer. "I don't want to deal with it any more. It hurts to….see you. Because I don't know you, not any more."

"You know me. You've known me for ten years."

Justin sighed, exasperated, pained. He could feel Brian's walls pulling up around him, and couldn't remember how to knock them down any more. "I know you, Brian, but I don't _know_ you."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Remember when we first met? How persistent I was? Remember how I knew you without knowing you?"

"Vaguely." There was the sarcasm, the Kinney defense mechanism.

"I can't do that anymore. I don't know how to read you anymore. It's…it's not because I don't love you. _God_, I love you. But I'm not with you. I'm not around you. I don't _know_you. So I can't go back. And….well, I think it's best if you stopped coming up here. Because it hurts to see you once, and barely know you. It hurts to touch you for such a short time and have to reacquaint myself with your body every few months. It just…I can't do this any more, and I can't go back. So I think we should just…..stop."

"So you're leaving then? For good?" He could hear the shock and pain Brian was trying so hard to hide.

Justin turned his back to Brian, his head dropping to his chest, a weary sigh falling from his lips. He couldn't look at him, not right now, not like that. "Yes."

There was nothing Brian could say to that. So Justin took a breath and decided to deliver his last painful blow, knowing it wouldn't end well, but there was nothing else he could do. He swallowed past the bitter words in his mouth. "And I think we should stop calling and talking and things. Just quit everything. It's easier that way."

"Easier." Brian's voice was flat. "It's not fucking _easier_, Justin. It feels fucking unnatural not to wake up next to you. I keep expecting to see you at Babylon every night. Coming up here gives me a break from all the bullshit at home and I actually get to enjoy something for once." Taking in a shaking breath, he shoved a hand through his hair and seemed to decide something. "It's not fucking _easier_," he spat. "But if it's what you want, fine. Anything for you, _Sunshine_." He said the nickname raw, like someone was tearing out his heart and taunting him with a red flag at the same time. Then he picked up his suitcase jerkily and walked out, not looking back.

Justin sank down onto the couch and stared at the wall. He didn't move for a long time.

Leaning forward toward the seat in front of him, Justin gave up trying to hold back and just let the realization that he was going back home hit him full force. He put his head in his hands. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to jump up and down with elation and slam his hands into something in frustration. He wanted to freeze up and then turn around and run back to New York. All these pent up emotions and memories hurt so much. He took a long, slow breath and tried to sort them out.

**************

They followed the flow of people off the plane. Gus tugged at his arm.

"Come on! We have to go get your luggage."

"Okay, Gus, okay." He followed the boy to baggage claim and stood there, waiting for the belt to start circling. Abruptly, he turned to the boy, frowning.

"Gus?" Gus looked at him. "Gus, who knows about your little plan? Who knows I'm coming?"

"Mom, Gramma Debbie and Uncle Ben. I think Gramma Jen might know too, but I'm not sure. Gramma Debbie might have told her."

Justin sighed. Shit. This was going to be an interesting experience he'd be wishing he'd never had. He watched Gus rush through the throng of people sardined around the metal loop of the luggage belt to grab their bags. Smiling gratefully at the fact that he wouldn't have to push through all those bodies, he took his bag from Gus and started toward the exit. They hailed a cab and were soon on their way home.

Justin stared out the window at the world outside as it flew by. He'd once known these places so well, now they were all different and unfamiliar.

He remembered his first year in New York, his shitty little apartment he'd shared with four other people that Brian had taken one look at and decided they were going to a hotel. He spent so much of that first year just trying to keep a job, get a showing or an agent, that he'd barely had time to see Brian. He spent nights on his tiny foldaway futon bed, not sleeping. He'd wrap himself in a sheet the way he'd done when he lived with Brian and stand at the window. He often wondered what Brian was doing, whether he was feeling the same stinging loss and the grey emptiness Justin was feeling. He would get to sleep late after staring out the window, sketching Brian by the light of the lamp on his desk, its shade moldy and its light getting ready to sputter out. He woke up in the morning clutching at his pillow, his face buried in it as if it were Brian.

After a little while in New York, the stress of his jobs and his need for a gallery or something to recognize his work, started getting to him. The nightmares from so long ago began again. Night after night, he woke up yelling, frantic and breathing hard. His roommates would shake him awake or he'd wake up himself, but he could never go back to sleep and he'd tell his roommates not to touch him, because the only who could ever make the phantoms in his head disappear was Brian. He wished time after time for blue light. He wondered if Brian felt the same crippling static of loss. He wondered if Brian experienced the same sweaty fear he felt at being alone, without a body beside him in the dark, that he did each night.

Whenever Brian visited, Justin would cling to his skin, to his smell, to his rough voice, trying to store it away for when he left again, to own it so he could cover himself from his nightmares like a child covered himself from a monster with his blanket. And Brian would cling to him as well. They wouldn't leave Brian's hotel hardly at all for the weekend, preferring instead to just allow the other's tingling presence to wash over them for a while. And then Brian would go home to Pittsburgh again, and Justin was left with a sense of time flying by, of things growing weary, of the fact that maybe what Brian had told him the night he left, that thing about time, really was a lie.

It was that slow, creeping realization that had convinced him not to go home any more. He allowed Brian the luxury of coming to New York, because he still needed Brian's presence, his solidness, as reassurance that the last few years weren't just an elaborate dream, but soon he knew that things would change. And that hurt. He tried hard to push that away, to cling to the idea that it really was only time, and not the feeling that he was being rubbed raw by the minutes passing by.

A pothole in the road jolted Justin back into the present. He turned to Gus.

"Hey, um, Gus? Where are we going?"

"Home."

Justin shook his head. "No, no. I know that. Which home? You and I have about four."

"Oh. I don't know. I thought you'd want to go to Brian's." At Justin's violent shake of his head, Gus shrugged. "Gramma Debbie's?"

Justin let out a breath and shrugged a little in agreement. He wasn't sure how ready he was to face any of his family. He could feel the nerves in his stomach, uncertainty filling his gut. He'd changed, everyone had, but he hadn't kept in touch. He hadn't asked for updates on their lives. He hadn't really even paid much attention to anything Daphne told him about them, while they kept a fucking scrapbook of his accomplishments. Suddenly, he felt like such a shit. He wished he could take back his stupid ignorance.

Sighing, he leaned his head against the window again, and closed his eyes, letting his mind drift to wherever it wanted, and fell asleep. He was awakened later by Gus shoving violently at his shoulder.

"Justin. Wake up. We're almost at Gramma Debbies."

Justin groaned and sat up in time to see the very end of Liberty Avenue fly past. He felt it's pull at the pit of his stomach, a slow burning need for things to be the way they used to, for the thumpa thumpa to go on.

"He rebuilt Babylon, you know." Gus interrupted his thoughts. "A little under three years ago. He never said why."

"Here you are." The cabbie pulled to a stop, not allowing Justin time to dwell on Gus' revealing little statement. Justin paid the driver and got out, tugging his suitcase with him.

Gus unlocked the door to Debbie's house and ushered him inside. He looked around. It was still the same bright, loud, delicious-smelling Novotny household he had left. Gus pulled his suitcase upstairs, vanishing up to put his stuff in the hallway, probably. From the kitchen, Justin could hear Debbie laughing loudly at something Carl's soft, gruffly gentle voice was saying, and Michael making a screechy, sarcastic comment. For a moment he just stood there, memories from years ago hitting him in the face. It made him want to fall over, or vomit. He stood there, rocking slightly in the entryway, overwhelmed by the flurry of the past.

Suddenly, the noise from the kitchen ceased, and Justin could feel three pairs of eyes boring into him. He made a feeble gesture of greeting with his hands, tried to smile. It came out nervous and too light. "Um, hi."


	2. Chapter 2

**Still not entirely certain what I'm doing for a plot, so just go with the flow. This chapter has a ridiculous amount of dialogue. I'm trying to write in a more lyrical manner for this story (lyrical as in descriptive, _not_ songfic, ugh!)**

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For a moment there was silence and all Justin could see were three pairs of wide eyes staring at him, like they had just seen a ghost. And then Debbie was shooting into the entryway and crushing Justin into one of her lung-squashing embraces and Michael was making sputtering noises of surprise and petulancy and Carl was just standing by the kitchen table, watching the goings-on with surprise and amusement.

"Sunshine! You look wonderful! I'm so happy to see you!" Justin could practically see the exclamation points at the end of each of her sentences. He allowed Debbie to squish him breathless once more before breaking away and looking at Michael.

"Hi, Michael."

"Uh, hi, Justin." Michael shifted from foot to foot. Justin heard Gus clomp down the stairs and into the room. "What are you doing here?"

"I…" Justin shot Gus a pleading look, but Gus just shrugged. "Gus came and got me." He didn't offer any other explanation and Michael just nodded like it meant something.

"Hey there, Justin." Carl greeted him with a nod from the kitchen table.

"Hi, Carl. Good to see you." Carl gave him a smile, which he returned.

Debbie bustled over to him again. He had forgotten about her tendency to mother hen. "Sweetie, you must be exhausted! Why don't you go upstairs and rest?"

Justin shook his head. As much as he appreciated the care and attention, he didn't feel like it. He was jittery and hyper with nerves, and he didn't want to sleep in the slightest. "It's all right, Debbie. I'm going to go and see my mother. I think she'd like to know if I'm in town."

"All right, Sunshine."

She nodded and he turned away to open the door. "Justin? Can I talk to you outside?" Michael's voice hit him and he fought the urge to wince. It was the jarring, forlorn tone he used when he was irrationally worried, and when he didn't want Justin in the way of whatever was going on. He plastered on a smile and turned back.

"Sure, Michael." They headed out the door together. Once they were off the landing and leaning against the fence, Michael turned to him, his face darkened and pulled down in a frown. Justin had to say, he agreed with Brian, the sulking gave Michael jowls. And it wasn't pretty.

"What are you doing here?"

"Gus told me about Brian. Why didn't anybody call me?"

"You two haven't been together in three years, Justin. And we didn't know if you were even talking to us anymore. You know we haven't heard from you in years. It would have been nice for you to let us know how you were doing."

Justin shook his head. He really didn't want to get into this, not right now. "Michael, I really don't want to argue about this right now. I'm back, that's what matters. Are you gonna let me go or is there anything else you want to say to me?"

"No, go on." Justin nodded a curt thanks and walked out of the yard. He walked a few blocks, just taking in the street, remembering, letting the past wash over him in waves. After a little while, he hailed a cab and told the cabbie his mother's address.

Justin listened to the chimes of the doorbell echo through the house. He was standing back at the very edge of the landing, bouncing on his toes. It was just his mother's house, he told himself, but he was still strangely nervous. The door opened and Justin stopped.

"Um, hi…Tucker. Is my mom home?" Tucker gave him a smile, somewhere between hostile and welcoming, and nodded.

"Yeah, she is. Hold on. Jen!" he called into the house.

"Yeah?"

"Someone's here to see you."

"Hold on a second, let me dry my hands." He heard running water from the kitchen stop. Tucker backed away from the door, leaving it open, and wandered toward the stairs. Justin stayed outside. He wasn't sure what to do. He heard his mothers footsteps stop at the end of the hallway.

"Justin!"

"Hi, Mom." He smiled slightly, wondering when the hell his grin had devolved into this weird, sad-nervous watery look. It must have been about three years ago, he decided.

"Justin, Honey!" She hurried toward him, but then stopped abruptly, standing awkwardly before him, her hands wringing together in unconscious nervousness. Why was she afraid to touch him? Had it really been that long? Was he really that much of a stranger now?

He smiled at her again and put out his arms, pulling her into a hug. She clung to him, holding him hard against her chest. When they pulled away, both were blinking rapidly.

"How have you been?" they asked at the same time. Jennifer gave an anxious little chuckled, and Justin smiled a bit.

"I've been good. My art is selling wonderfully. I'm really happy in New York." _I think,_ his mind supplied to him.

"Are you seeing someone?" Jennifer's voice sounded almost resigned. He wondered what that meant.

"No, I'm not. Too busy. I'm sorry I haven't really kept in touch. New York is hard work. It's a distracting place to live. So how are you?"

"Tucker and I are doing great."

"'Tucker and I'?"

"We got married a few years ago, sweetie."

"Oh. Well, that's nice. How's Molly?"

"She's doing great. She's got accepted to Stanford. She wants to be a lawyer."

"Good for her. I thought she might like California."

"She loves it, Justin. She thinks it's wonderful."

"That's good." There was another awkward silence.

"Why- why don't you come in, Justin? Do you want something to eat?"

"Sure, I guess. Thanks." He followed her inside and sat down at the kitchen table as she began to fix him something. He suddenly felt seventeen again.

"So, you're back. How…" she cast her eyes down, a hint of anger in her face. "How long are you staying?"

"Mom? I…I don't know. Gus just showed up on my doorstep this afternoon. I didn't even know he knew where I lived. He told me about Brian, and asked me to come back. So…."

"I'm sorry about Brian. Although, I haven't really seen him around much."

"I know. Gus says he spends most of his time alone. Nobody's really seen him."

"He misses you, Justin. I think you really hurt him." It was just a statement, but Justin heard it as an accusation, and a rightful one at that. Again he felt a rough spike of regret.

"I know. I didn't mean to. I just thought it would be better for both of us." Jennifer nodded, placing a grilled cheese sandwich and apple slices on a plate in front of him.

"You should go see him, you know. It might do you both some good. Talk things out, maybe. He'll probably be happy to see you."

Justin thought Brian would probably blow up in his face and then shut down again, but he nodded at his mother and took a bite of his sandwich in silence.

"So, what's life been like here in Pittsburgh?" He sort of didn't want to know, because that would make him want to stay, but he didn't want this silence making awkward holes in the air around them.

"Well, Tucker and I got married. It was a wonderful ceremony. Emmett was the planner, of course."

"Of course," Justin responded around a mouthful.

"And…Lindsay and Melanie moved back here a few years ago."

"Yeah, Gus told me. What happened?"

"They decided they had made a hasty decision. And I guess Gus wanted to see Brian more often. And Melanie had to go to school all over again, you know, because some laws are different up there. They decided it was too hard, and moved back here."

"Oh."

"And, what else? Ted and his boyfriend, Blake, decided to go to Vermont and get married last year. And Emmett and his boyfriend, Calvin are thinking they might get engaged, soon, too."

There was a heavy silence as they both thought back to that time years ago when Justin and Brian had nearly married.

Jennifer took a breath and interrupted Justin's thoughts, cutting off his sudden wave of sadness. "Hunter is going to graduate from AMDA next year. He got a minor role in a TV show. But it's just for a few weeks. Ben and Michael are really proud. Oh! And Ben is doing really well. He had a big scare about four years back, but he's okay now. And he's expanded into teaching a class on politics and equality and how to express your opinions without violence. I can't remember the official name of the class, though."

She glanced at the clock. "Oh! It's almost six! Do you want me to drive you to Woody's? According to Debbie, the guys are usually there around this time. You can say hi to them."

"Yeah, sure. Will…"

"Brian be there? No, I don't think so. He seems to be spending a lot of time in his loft, these days."

"Okay. Well, I guess I'll go to Woody's." Justin finished the rest of his meal and brought the plate over to the sink, turning on the faucet and sluicing it through the water before placing it in the dishwasher.

Jennifer grabbed her coat, called goodbye to Tucker, and Justin followed her outside. They were silent as she drove him to Woody's. Justin stared out the window, watching the neighborhoods fly past, noting the changes. Though, when he walked into Woody's it had a newer bar and the stage curtains had changed, other than that, it was still the old Woody's.

Just inside the door, Justin looked around. He had a sudden flash of twelve years ago, when he had been standing like this, nervously just inside the door, afraid of being touched, looking for Brian. But this time he was looking for everyone else. Emmett saw him before he noticed them.

"Baby! Justin!" Justin heard the falsetto call and found Emmett's waving hand, hurried over. He kissed Emmett's cheek, then Ted's, and sat down in an empty chair. "Justin! This is my sweetie, Calvin." Justin gave Calvin a handshake and a sunshine smile. He looked at Blake.

"I remember you, Blake. Good to see you."

Blake nodded. "Yeah," he said in his breathless way. "You too."

"So," Emmett gave him an adorable purse-lipped smile. "Whatcha been up to, Baby?"

"My art, working, you know."

"What's New York like?"

"Em, New York is wonderful! It's big and loud and fast paced and I love it. I'm totally amazed that I even managed to become successful in such a huge place."

"We always knew you could do it," Ted contributed. "Especially Debbie."

"I'm sorry I haven't kept in touch, guys. I've been busy, and you know, once I wasn't busy I was so used to not checking up on everyone that I just didn't."

"We understand." Emmett said, though he looked as if he didn't. Someone whistled from the bar and Emmett jumped up. "Ah! Drinks! Baby, you want me to get you something while I'm up there?"

"Uh, yeah. Beam. Double."

"Sure thing, sweetie." He watched Emmett flounce off with an affectionate smile.

Blake and Ted turned back to discussing something, and Calvin was making doe eyes at Emmett from across the room, so Justin temporarily allowed his mind to wander.

He remember all the times he and Brian had sat here in Woody's. He remembered when Stockwell had lost and Brian had pulled him into a tight embrace of joy and rocked him back and forth. He remembered the first night he'd gone to Woody's, he remembered coming to Woody's and showing Brian his new piercing, which resulted in Brian taking him home and fucking his brains out. He remembered the first time he'd ever heard Brian thank someone and accept help, in Woody's. He remembered the stag party for Brian, when he had first realized that maybe marriage wasn't what he wanted. And wasn't that the start of the whole goddamn thing?

He shook himself back into the present when Emmett returned with drinks, and they fell into small talk, about whatever current drama was going on at Babylon, with some new guy, with the Diner, whatever. Slowly, he began to catch up on life in Pittsburgh after he left.

After a while, Emmett made a flowy little gesture with his hand and stood up. "It's getting late! I have work in the morning, as I'm sure all the rest of you do." He took Calvin's hand. "We'll see you all at the diner tomorrow. Ta!"

"I better go, too." Justin said, dropping money on the table for his drink and standing up. "If I can, I'll try to get over to the diner tomorrow."

"Okay. See you." Ted and Blake waved him goodbye and he left. He hailed a cab and got inside.

"Six Fuller, corner of Tremont." The cabbie nodded, smirking. He realized the driver had probably been there on many an occasion, and wasn't surprised.

He got out and paid the cabbie, then turned toward the familiar door and took a breath. He stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out his key ring, wondering idly if he had remembered to keep the key to Brian's loft. He had. He unlocked the door and took the stairs, so Brian wouldn't know he was coming. He didn't want Brian ready with some pissy sarcastic remark, ready to immediately slam the door in his face.

For a moment, he just stood still in front of the steel door, staring. Behind that metal, the loft held a history of five of the most important years of his life. He breathed out a shaky breath full of memories and longing, and knocked on the door. It echoed, rattling like the undead, like something out of a dream, a nightmare. He heard a groan from inside the loft and jolt of worry and resisted devotion ran through him, shooting silver through to the tips of his nerves.

The door rolled slowly open, and then Justin was staring at the man who had been merely an apparition of his dreams for the past three years, the center of his unconscious and the undying muse of his paintings. Brian's face was gaunt, dark circles of pain under his eyes. He was still lean and muscular, but there was something about his abdomen, his skin, that made him seem frail to Justin. He was wearing jeans, unbuttoned, of course, and a black wifebeater. It made Justin fall in swirling lust with him all over again. He looked at the hazel eyes, the fear and anger and love and longing and need and weakness and agony warring behind them. Brian's face pulled into an annoyed and angry frown, but Justin could see through it to the wanting simmering beneath the surface. He felt the electricity, zinging angry and needy and tense between them.

Brian pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, cocked his head. "What the fuck are you doing here?"


	3. Chapter 3

For a moment Justin froze, the sad, exhausted expression on Brian's face rushing him back years, to the frozen, chestnut feeling of aching, fiery, frostbite sting that came with leaving the loft for the Big City so many years ago. He remembered Brian's swollen expression as he held back tears, the grating scream that had pushed its way out of his mouth as he came hard before collapsing down on top of Justin, pushing his blonde hair away and staring into his eyes with such deep green sadness and loss and resentful acceptance, that Justin had nearly stayed. He wanted to push him away so he couldn't, and he wanted to bury himself in Brian and never leave. But Brian had nuzzled his head into Justin's neck, hot, unexpected tears falling against his throat, Brian's voice, rough with tears and anguish, a low, sandpapered, watery timbre, _"I love you."_ And softer, a whisper, lips velvet against the skin of his neck, _"I love you."_ And Brian's breath, labored with tears and empty despair, had evened out into sleep, his cock had softened and slid from Justin as if letting him go, and Justin had slipped out from beneath him, kissing the corner of his mouth, and left, without waking him, without saying goodbye or 'later'.

He pushed the thoughts out of his head and stood his ground, staring into Brian's eyes for a moment before shoving past him and into his loft. He looked around. Everything was generally the same as it had been years ago. But instead of the Naked Guy painting, which he'd sold after the Stockwell incident, there was a large one of Justin's own paintings. He raised an eyebrow.

"You're the one who bought that? What the fuck, why?"

"You didn't know?"

"My fucking agent said the buyer wanted to stay anonymous. He wouldn't tell me a thing. I didn't think it…" _I didn't think it would be you, because we hadn't seen each other in years. Because I don't know how good we are together anymore. Because of the way you left. And because of the way I stayed._ His thoughts went unsaid, but Brian tensed, as if he'd spoken them aloud.

"Once again, Justin, why the fuck are you here?"

"Your son."

"My son."

"What, did you swallow a recorder?"

Brian sighed wearily, made his way toward the bedroom. Justin was still standing by the door. "Just, tell me what you're doing here, or get the fuck out."

Justin followed him slowly into the room and stood by the couch, watching Brian sit down on the bed and pull off his socks. He didn't go into the bedroom, didn't know what would happen if he stepped into the familiar sanctuary of his life before New York.

"Your son flew from Pittsburgh to New York, on his own, and came to my front door to make me come home. He's got Kinney blood; I didn't exactly have the strength to turn him down."

Brian gave him a look that clearly said,_ You turned me down, more than once. You definitely turned me down. _Instead, he frowned and shook his head. "Stupid shit. He's gonna get it for that."

Justin gave a little smirk at the familiar faux exasperation in Brian's voice. He felt a familiar flip flop in his belly and tried to tamp it down before it showed on his face. He stepped toward the window, picking up a coaster from the coffee table to occupy his hands. Brian gave him a look, but he couldn't decipher it, it was meaningless to him. His heart sank as he realized just how much of the Brian Kinney Operating Manual he'd lost.

Justin began to feel the tingling tendrils of nervousness wind their way around his stomach. He still wasn't sure how to approach Brian with the topic of the cancer, so he changed the subject. "My mother never invited me to her wedding. I'm assuming you had something to do with this?"

"You said you didn't want to come back here any more. So I told her not to send you an invitation. It took a little while, but she agreed. You _did_ say there was nothing left for you in Pittsburgh. So, again, if there's nothing left, why the fuck did you come back here?"

Ah, Brian, always to the point. Justin shifted from foot to foot. He wasn't sure what to say. The tendrils crept farther up. "Ah, you know what? I…I'm gonna get going. I gotta book a hotel and things. And you know, you were probably sleeping or getting ready to go out when I got here, so I'll let you get back to that. So, uh, later."

He hurried to the door, the rumbling of the metal opening almost loud enough to cover Brian's soft, confused, "Later." Justin could feel Brian's frown on his skin.

***********

Justin found himself outside Mel and Lindsay's house, fist raised to knock on the door. He sighed and did so, the hollow rapping of the wood sounding the way his heart had the past few years. He grimaced at the comparison. Lindsay answered the door with Melanie right behind her.

"Hi, Justin."

He smiled dimly at her. "Where's Gus?" he asked wearily. Lindsay blinked, then smiled gently at him.

"Upstairs, in his room. You can go talk to him if you want." He nodded and ascended the stairs, the girls looking on with concerned expressions. He ignored them. Knocking once, he stepped into Gus's room. Gus was clicking away at his computer, but he spun his chair around as Justin entered.

"Hey, what'd he say?"

Justin sank down at the end of Gus's bed, his hands folded in his lap, and looked everywhere but the boy in front of him. "I dunno. I can't talk to him anymore."

Gus scoffed. "What does that mean?"

Justin rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the pinch of sadness and regret in his belly, a blurred feeling of helplessness. "It means I can't. It means it's been too long. It means I dont… it means…"

"It means you lost the Brian Kinney Operating Manual." Justin frowned. He remembered when that used to be a joke between him and Michael, used to make him laugh. It lost its humour right around the time the cancer first appeared.

"How do you know about that?"

"I listen to Michael talk. I hear things. You know. So what are you going to do?"

"No idea." He sighed. "I don't even know why I came back here. It's not like I expected everything to suddenly be okay again."

"What do you mean?"

"Brian and I don't…we haven't talked in years. I don't know if we can even communicate the way we used to. So much has changed, we've both changed."

"But you still love him."

"I dunno. I guess. I tried not to. I tried to forget about him while I was in New York. I really did. It worked some of the time." He muttered the last part more to himself than to Gus. Thinking about Brian while he was in New York had just made the ache in his gut worsen at the distance between them.

"But you can't talk to him?" Gus didn't seem to understand. Justin realized he probably didn't; he hadn't lived with Brian long enough to understand what exactly the Kinney Operating Manual entailed.

"Brian….changes the rules when he gets hurt." He scrubbed slowly at his face, feeling lost and incredibly tired. "He'll fuck with the manual so he won't get hurt. You have to be around him all the time in order to rewrite it, in order to catch up. And I haven't been. And I don't remember how to….Never mind, you wouldn't understand."

"Then go reread the manual. Go remember how to talk to him. Please, Justin."

"Gus, why….why did you come get me?"

"I want you to talk to Dad. He won't listen to anyone else. It's the truth. That's it, that's all there is."

"You can't just expect me to waltz in to his life after so long and expect that he'd actually listen to me."

"Well, I can hope." Justin sighed. This meant he'd have to relearn the Brian Kinney Operating Manual, which meant he'd have to go over to Michael's.

"Alright. I'll try, I guess. But I'm not promising you anything. And I have to be back to my apartment in two weeks. If he doesn't listen to me by then, you guys will have to deal with him on your own."

Gus jumped up and flung his arms around Justin's neck. "Thank you, Justin!"

"Uh huh." He stood up. "I have to get to Michael's, then."

Michael's was just as he'd imagined it: loud, colourful, chaotic. He knocked on the door, and Michael's "Coming!" screeched through the door. It opened a few moments later and Michael stood there, clad in a dirty white apron, with Jenny Rebecca clinging to his legs and giggling, a stuffed bunny clutched in one hand.

"Oh, hi, Justin." He moved aside and let Justin in.

"Hey, Michael. Listen, I'm sorry about earlier. But, um, I need some help."

Michael raised an eyebrow, but didn't seem angry or suspicious any longer. He plopped down on the couch and opened his arms so Jenny could climb into his lap.

"So…what's up?" he asked once Justin had made himself comfortable in an armchair near the sofa.

Justin sighed and looked down, shaking his head. He watched his hair flop in front of his eyes. "I don't know. I've lost the Kinney Operating Manual. I can't read him anymore, can't talk to him."

"Why do you need to talk to him?"

Justin sighed again, this time out of resentment towards his coming back. "Gus came to my loft in New York and got me. He thinks I can convince Brian to start radiation. I said I'd do it, to humour him, y'know. Only, he's changed the manual again, and I've lost things. I dunno."

"I don't know how much I can help you. You practically wrote half that stuff, and you were the one who was with him during the…the…"

"Cancer. I know. I guess I've just forgotten how to read him. And how to talk to him so that he'll actually open up. You know, we didn't really part on the best of terms."

"I gathered that, since he came storming back here and locked himself in his loft for a month. Nearly drank himself to death, hardly came outside even for work. He just sort of disintegrated. Like he'd lost something."

"Christ," Justin exclaimed softly, a cold wave passing through him like a February wind. "I didn't know about that."

"Yeah. You fucked him up pretty bad." It wasn't an accusation, just the truth, but it hurt like someone taken his heart and twisted.

Justin dropped his head, his voice low and sad. "I know. And I want to help. But…I have a feeling that if I come back here and stay for a while, I won't be able to go back to New York. I won't be able to forget or ignore everything like I did before. I wont be able to go back to life up there. And most of all I don't know how to help Brian."

They sat for a moment in silence. Jenny got up off Michael's lap and wandered upstairs. Justin thought back to all those years ago, the first time the cancer hit, the fear that had sat low in his gut from the time he'd overheard Dr. Rabinowitz's message on the machine until after the Liberty Ride. He remembered the tense numbness, the sort of low-grade panic, the way his brain had clammed up if he'd even thought of the chance of Brian dying. He realized that that was exactly what his brain was doing now. He was numb, refusing to believe, refusing to listen to Brian's undertones, because he didn't know if the Kinney-ese beneath the regular words would tell him something he didn't want to hear, didn't want to feel, never wanted to experience again.

Justin nodded, as if deciding something. "All right. I'm gonna go over to Deb's and get some sleep. I guess I'll….try…to talk to Brian tomorrow. I…don't know."

Michael nodded, bit his lip. "Good luck." He parted from Michael's house with a wave.

**************

The next morning, Justin sat at Debbie's kitchen table, silently musing over waffles and scrambled eggs about what to do about Brian. He remembered when he was living at Debbie's when he was a kid. Back then, he would have been brazen and confident and just gone straight ahead and done whatever he thought was right. Back then, he would have been able to read Brian in a moment. Back then, he would have queened out, then thrown himself into action. Now….now he was different. Maybe he would try to emulate the kid he had once been. Maybe it would help him with the Kinney Operating Manual.

He wished suddenly that Vic was still alive; he'd always given the best advice. But he wasn't, so he'd either have to settle for Debbie or just figure it out on his own. He decided on the latter. Yelling up the stairs that he was leaving, he began the walk to Brian's loft, figuring that the exercise and air would help him think and work out some sort of plan. Though, by the time he got to Brian's building, he didn't have anything, only the fact that maybe now he remembered some of the Manual after reviewing his teenage years on his walk over. He'd just try to be as stubborn and pigheaded as he'd been when he was seventeen. He rolled his eyes as he headed up the stairs to Brian's loft. _Fuck it_, he thought.

He took the stairs up, knowing that Brian would be able to hear the elevator. His feet slowed with nervousness as he neared Brian's floor. It felt like he was pushing through sludge, blue-grey nervousness clouding the edges of his vision. He felt jittery and lethargic at the same time, like a bad trip. He didn't want to do this, but it seemed to be the only way.

This time he didn't knock, he simply opened the door and walked inside. It was what his teenage self would have done. Brian looked up from the couch, where he was watching _Rebel Without A Cause_. Again. Justin wanted to smile at the sight. He remembered seeing that a lot when he lived at the loft; Brian sitting on the couch, watching some old movie and smoking a joint. This time he had a couple of JB bottles on the table in front of him, too. Brian sighed, a resigned sound that made Justin flinch.

"What do you want?" Justin walked into the loft, standing a few feet away from the couch. This felt awfully familiar, like years before when he had been living with Ethan.

"I'm sorry I left, Brian." He wasn't sure why that was what came out of his mouth. He hadn't planned anything to say, so it had just jumped out. He wasn't sure if he wanted to take them back, he no longer thought they were totally untrue.

Brian shrugged, indifferent. Justin knew that wasn't the case. His movements were slurred and strange from the alcohol and drugs in his system. "Yeah, well. It doesn't matter any more. You stopped needing us, you stopped needing me, so…."

"Did you stop needing me?" Justin's voice was hesitant and soft, he was terrified of the answer to the question.

Brian turned to him fully for the first time. His hazel eyes were stoned, drunk, vacant in a way that drugs could never do, in a way that loss too great to imagine does to you, a gaping hole that losing the most important thing in your life creates. Brian's voice came out drugged and broken, intense in a way that made him choke up. "I _never_ stopped needing you, Justin."

Justin's knees were suddenly weak. An ache spread behind his eyes, bloomed in his heart. He wanted to collapse onto the floor of the loft in tears. This is why he hadn't wanted to come back. He hadn't wanted to open up the wound, let in the pain of leaving Brian again. Justin knew he would hurt for a while if he left once more, and soon it would be nothing but an ache. But he didn't think Brian would survive if he left again.

Brian clenched his teeth, his throat working. Justin watched his eyes turn inward, even though they were staring at the television screen.

"I _never_ stopped." Justin didn't think Brian knew he'd stated it aloud. He said it again, so quiet it almost wasn't there, but to Justin, it was as if he had screamed it, and it echoed around the loft like the low toll of a bell.

* * *

**Where do you guys want this fic to go? I'm flying by the seat of my pants here. I have absolutely no plan for this fic. I want it to stay angsty for a while, because I have a ton of fun writing that. Do you guys want this to be a deathfic? Or something else? If you have any ideas, let me know, I'm open to almost anything. I will say, though, that I wont do anything that I find OOC, like making Brian move to NY or having them get married. Because I dont think they would. Let me know your ideas!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry it took me so long to write this. I'm still trying to flesh out and figure out what's going to be happening in this story. This chapter is really angsty and has a lot of flashbacks. I didnt italicize the flashbacks, but if they're too hard to read, let me know if I should. I think I separated them from the present okay.**

* * *

"Brian." Justin's voice was low and rough. He maneuvered himself into a chair by the counter, somehow managing to get there without taking his eyes off the back of Brian's head or stumbling. His own voice sounded aching and strained to his ears, reminding him of another darkened night, three years ago.

They hadn't really been fighting. Okay, so it had sort of been a fight, but not really. More like they were both stressed and annoyed and taking it out on each other. And Justin was annoyed with the fact that Brian still pestered him about coming back, and that his visit hadn't helped at all with his loss of inspiration. By the time night fell, and they were actually getting tired, the anger and annoyance were more like a bit of heat simmering just at the surface. They climbed into Justin's bed. It was big, but not as large or comfortable as Brian's. They lay on their backs for a little while, before Brian rolled over on top of Justin and shoved gently at his shoulder.

"Roll over." It was soft, and a little commanding. Justin looked back at him, his eyes tired and heat simmering and maybe a little sad and resigned. Brian's eyes held nothing but desire and heat, but there was something darker lurking behind, Justin could sense it.

"No," he said gently. "I wanna…" he gestured between them, indicated that he wanted to fuck face to face. Normally, when Brian was still a little angry, he'd say fuck it and flip Justin over and fuck him on his belly. This time he didn't, he just nodded a little and stroked a hand down Justin's pale stomach, twisting his fingers in the hairs below his belly. Justin suddenly missed blue lights.

And then Brian was there, kissing him hard, bruising, angry and resentful and passionate all at once. Justin pulled Brian closer and groaned in his ear, and felt Brian's cock jump against his leg. Brian slid on the condom, slicked and readied and entered him quickly. At first, he was fucking him fast, but then Justin opened his mouth to moan wordlessly, and instead what came out was a low, throaty "Brian." It sounded like sadness. And suddenly Brian stopped, stared wide-eyed at him with an expression like a frightened animal and an emotion behind his eyes that Justin could not read. He'd gone slow, then, and Justin clung to him, kissing him softly, touching, caressing, savoring the feel of sweaty skin against skin and Brian's warm breath against his neck the way it so often was. They both came suddenly, their climaxes sneaking up on them and taking them by surprise. They fucked three more times after that, each different, more tender and yet rougher in a slow, heated way, sweeter and more resentful, with a strain of desperation running through their veins, and the air filled with something that was unnamable until the whole visit had blown over and Justin had time to sit and think and paint and stew and just mope angrily.

It wasn't until after, when Justin was painting out his loss and frustration, that the realization came as to why those tender passionate kisses and gentle caresses and soft moans had felt so wonderful and yet so odd. It was because they'd felt like a farewell, because it really was goodbye, not later, this time, and they'd both felt it deep down. It was why they'd clutched at one another, each staring into the other's eyes and kissing and licking and touching every part of their body available as if they were trying to burn the other's body into their brain, memorize their face and save their sweet touch somewhere deep inside. Because it was long after Brian left, door clanging shut, his scent just a small whiff on the air, that Justin recognized it as goodbye. He remembered the finality, the dark sadness that permeated their passion and made them slow down and _love_ each other for the last time, no matter how angry and resentful they were. He remembered the way Brian had entered him the last time, slow and gentle, foreheads pressed together and eyes staring into his, but then his arms had begun to shake, and some unreadable emotion had come over him, and he'd squeezed his eyes shut. The look on his face had seemed like agony, like despair, and maybe it was. He'd kissed Justin ever so gently on the right temple, whispered "Sunshine" in his ear and came hard. They'd fallen asleep immediately and without talking, completely worn out. The next real conversation they'd have was the Fight before Brian walked out back to life in Pittsburgh and Justin stayed in New York to paint and live what he thought was his dream.

"Brian." He said it aloud, focusing again on the drunken man in front of him. He stood and approached the couch, placing one hand on the back of it. He was cautious, didn't know what might happen if he touched Brian, but he wanted, wanted so badly to touch him. It was something he had never forgotten, the magnetic attraction to each that was like a manic need. His fingers twitched slightly on the cushion.

He felt his heart clench. After those first few struggling years, he wanted to be his own man, to not need anyone. It was as if he and his lover had switched places. He'd told himself that he didn't think of Brian every day, that he didn't miss him or want him or need him. He'd told himself that he wouldn't see Brian any more, wouldn't feel this way, but he knew he was wrong. He knew that he smirked affectionately, proudly, when he saw an ad that was obviously Kinnetic's. He knew that most of his paintings represented Brian, his love for Brian, his loss of Brian, his anger at Brian, just Brian. He knew that he dreamed about him, though he'd push the dreams and nightmares away and splash cold water on his face to forget them. The truth was, he needed Brian just as much. He just didn't want to have to need him. The truth was, his fingers still hovered over the glowing numbers of his cell phone in the middle of the night when he woke up trembling and sweating from a nightmare. The truth was, he still craved Brian's touch, his taste, his voice. The truth was, he'd never stopped needing Brian, either.

Justin ran his fingers across the back of the couch and down the arm as he walked to the front of the couch and sat down beside Brian, carefully not touching him. They both stared blankly at the television, not registering the action onscreen. Justin thought he'd pushed all this away, the loving Brian so completely, the needing him, the near codependency they had on each other. But here it was, back, though he was trying his hardest to push it down again. It wasn't working very well.

He thought about what he would have done in the past. What had he done last time the cancer appeared? Pretended he didn't know. Then he'd pushed Brian on the ground, screamed at him and told him to eat some fucking chicken soup. And then he'd dealt with it, dealt with the worry and the pain that ate at him every second of every day. And he'd have to do it again. At least last time, Brian had already been going through radiation. This time….This time would be harder, more painful.

Justin stared at the screen, still not moving, not registering the characters. He took a breath, not looking at Brian, unblinking, staring at the television. He felt the pain scraping at his insides, knew this was going to hurt even more.

"I know about the cancer, Brian." He forced it out. It came out hard and cruel and pained.

Brian's head turned slowly, his hazel eyes morphing from dull and damaged to sharp and angry and shocked. He looked like had been punched in the gut. He stood with sudden force and gripped Justin's upper arm, wrenching him off the couch.

"Out. Get the fuck out."

"Brian. Brian, I love you. Let me help you."

"Fuck you." Brian spat, shoving him in the direction of the door. "You leave and don't talk to me and tell me you don't love me and that we shouldn't talk ever again and then suddenly you love me again? Fuck you." There was heat and hurt and anger and a terrible aching sadness burning in the hazel eyes that were glaring vehemently at him. Brian turned away from him suddenly, body slumping almost imperceptibly. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and headed towards the bedroom.

"Brian, I—"

"Leave." One word, soft and firm and full of a broken anger that hurt his heart and made him want to scream. Justin's shoulders dropped and he made his way slowly to the door, shutting it behind him and leaning his head against the cool brick. Fuck. He didn't know it, didn't admit it even to himself, until he said it; he still loved Brian more than anything. When he'd said yes to Gus's question, he hadn't really believed it. He hadn't really thought that he was still in love with Brian; he had just begun to think that maybe, maybe he was finally over him.

Justin shoved away from the wall and forced his feet to carry him down the stairs and out the door. It was a path he'd taken too many times, out instead of in. He headed back to Debbie's, but quickly detoured to the small art shop he used to frequent before he left.

"Justin!" Mr. Guiro, the owner, still recognized him.

Justin gave a small smile. "Hi, Mr. Guiro. I need some paints and a few canvases."

"Inspiration struck hard, huh?"

"You could say that." Mr. Guiro got him what he needed, rung him up at the register.

"Half off. We give local artists discounts. Since you live here, you get half off."

Justin opened his mouth to tell Mr. Guiro to tell him that Pittsburgh wasn't home, but that felt like a lie, so instead he said "I forgot about that."

"Oh, no, you didn't. We didn't start it up until you went to New York."

"Oh. Well, thanks, Mr. Guiro."

"No problem, Justin. See you around." Justin left the shop and walked the rest of the way to Debbie's, lugging his tools with him.

When he got inside, she gave him a funny look. He decided to clarify his appearance and the bulky purchases he had with him.

"Deb, I was wondering, could I maybe…paint in your spare room? I'll put drops down and everything. I don't have a studio here…"

Debbie gave him a smile, part cheeriness, part sympathy. He'd forgotten that she knew about the cancer. She probably felt incredibly sorry for him. "Of course, Sweetie, whatever you want."

So Justin set up quickly in the small spare bedroom, covering the floor with a dropcloth and the rest of the furniture with old sheets. He slashed at the canvas, emotions swirling around inside him, a tumultuous tumbling that left him shaking as memories washed over him and out through his brush.

About a year and a half after he moved to New York, Justin decided it would be better if he stopped seeing everyone else, if he stopped going back to Pittsburgh. It wasn't just because of expenses, or because of the fact that he was trying to make it on his own this time. It was because every time he went back, every time he visited for a birthday or a holiday or just on a whim, everyone had changed. So much had happened when he was gone, and he wasn't a part of it, not anymore, not in the way he used to be. He felt outside of the group, no longer part of the family, even if Debbie and the others insisted that he still was. So he stopped coming back, because it was easier that way.

Brian came up to his little tiny shared apartment the a few weeks after Gus's birthday the second year. Justin had been in a not-so-good mood for a while, but he'd finally gotten his muse back and now he was trying to work nonstop. So he and Brian had fucked a few times, and now he was in his studio, standing in front of an easel as he planned out his next painting in his head. Brian was sprawled on the little couch behind him, and Justin could feel his eyes on the back of his head.

As he dipped his brush in the first color and began to spread it across the canvas, Brian said, "Did you go visit Gus to give him his birthday present?"

Justin continued painting. "Yeah, I did. Gus is getting really big. I had a good time."

"No, you didn't." Brian's voice was harsh. Justin's brush stopped.

"What?"

"I called Lindsay the other day, asked her if you had visited. She said you hadn't been to see them since last year, but you sent her regular emails about New York and art, and that every once in a while you'd call to talk to Gus."

"I…" Justin was surprised that Brian had gone so in depth to find out if he was talking to his son. "I was just busy."

"That's bullshit and you know it."

Justin wasn't sure how to explain his reasoning to Brian, so he tried his best. "I just think that I need to make it on my own out here. If I want to do that, I can't keep going back. I have to let my old life go in order to start a new one."

"We're not just going fucking forget about you, Justin. You know that. You cant just stop coming home." His voice sounded strained, like he was holding himself back.

"That's just it, Brian! Pittsburgh isn't home anymore! New York is my home now. It has to be. Pittsburgh is your home, not mine."

Brian was utterly silent after that, staring away from him and out the window, eyes hard. Justin went back to his painting, but he felt wobbly and on the verge of tears and so incredibly _tired_.

It seemed to start with that. The silence that had settled between them that night seemed to stay, living and thriving in their regrets and doubts and the black tar of their loss. It grew between them, and Justin could feel it pressing against his chest even with Brian miles away. Everything seemed to have changed between them in just a year. Justin wondered if Brian's sentiment about "only time" was just a line he told himself to keep it together. He decided it probably was, because every time Brian came to visit, the silences between them when they weren't fucking were growing larger, heavier, permeated with resentments and doubts, secrets and unsaid fears, adoration that was never expressed, frustration and misunderstanding as to why the silence even existed. When they did talk, they were fighting. Neither of them knew why. Each time Brian left, they both looked broken down, weary, and just so fucking confused. Their bodies felt a pull towards each other, but their minds no longer melded, they could not understand each other, and there was no perfect puzzle piece fit.

Justin would realize later that wasn't time, but distance that broke them apart. They'd always been better at speaking with their bodies, with expressions and small noises, have entire conversations with their eyes. But as time went on, they stopped understanding each other. Brian had always been extremely tactile, and Justin knew that the pull they felt toward each other was becoming one-sided, that Brian still needed to touch him all the time, to feel him to know that he existed and that he still had him. But Justin didn't need that any more, didn't want it. He didn't want reassurance, because he didn't want to go back, didn't want Brian out here in a place that was _his_. He wanted this new life, this new adventure, without Brian's help. Without anyone. He didn't think he needed Brian's touch to tell him he was alive anymore, and he didn't think he needed Brian to fuck him all better or kiss him full. And so Brian's needs went unmet. The pulling and pushing they did over the phone just didn't work, and they were falling apart, crumbling in two different cities miles apart, each unable to stop it and unable to help the other.

When Justin remembered pieces of the prom one night in a dream, he stayed up late thinking about it. But he didn't call Brian, and he didn't tell him when he called a few days later. He remembered more a week later, but he simply rolled over and went back to sleep. He didn't need false promises of love and affection forcing him back to Pittsburgh. It was a long time ago, and he was trying to make it on his own. He didn't want to go back to Brian, and more than that, he didn't need to. So he said nothing. Brian didn't find out about it until a month and a half later.

By that time, he was living in his own apartment. It was small and dingy and, as Brian put it, 'a pisshole,' but it was all his. He was pacing around the kitchen, making dinner and talking inane gossip about his New York friends and colleagues to fill the the void of unfamiliarity as Brian sat on a rickety old stool and watched him flit about.

"…So Sheila is going to go to Paris, but Harris doesn't want her to and they got into a huge fight. Michelle and I are trying really hard to get them to at least be civil, but I don't know. Anyway, I remembered Emmett's birthday and sent him a card. My friend Azure Skye made it." He tossed his chopped up carrots into the pan.

"Azure Skye?"

"She's a tranny street performer. It's her stage name." Brian raised an eyebrow. Justin turned his back to him as he cut the raw chicken into strips. "Oh, and I remembered the prom from my senior year," he tossed over his shoulder. "Which reminds me, Garrett said he has to learn how to dance, and he wants me to help him practice. Anyway, I—"

Suddenly Brian was very, very close to him, an expression in his eyes one Justin had never seen before. He stilled Justin's chopping with a hand on his wrist. "You what?"

Justin shrugged. "I remembered the prom. So? It was years ago Brian, it doesn't even matter any more. Can I have my hand back now?"

Brian let go of his hand, but didn't move from his spot. His voice was slow and deliberate. "You don't care that you remembered the prom? What the fuck, Justin?"

"I just don't think it's that important any more. It's the past, it's behind us. With all the other shit that has happened, it really doesn't matter."

Brian's eyes widened, then narrowed. Justin didn't think he'd ever seen his emotions so mixed; anger and dismay and sadness and so much more swirled behind the hazel orbs. Brian turned away and sat back on the stool, his shoulders slumping, and suddenly all that was there was a sort of sad, hopeless defeat. Justin had never felt that from him before, didn't know what to do with it, so he turned back to dinner. Brian stared at the floor, unseeing, not speaking. When the meal was ready, they ate in silence.

Months after the Fight—Justin thought of it as capitalized—Brian called him. Justin answered absently, paying more attention to his art than the phone.

"Hello?"

"Justin."

Justin sighed. "Why are you calling, Brian?"

"I just thought you'd like to know I went to the doctor's yesterday. It's been five years since the cancer, and there's no sign of it coming back. They say I'm in the all-clear."

Justin wasn't really paying attention, and he wasn't sure whether he should care or not, since in his head, they weren't together anymore. "That's good, Brian." He said distractedly.

"Justin."

"Hmm?"

"Just fucking say it already. Get it the hell out there and I won't talk to you anymore."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Say it. You don't love me anymore. We both know it."

"Brian…" Justin felt tired. He didn't know what to do with himself.

"Fuck you. Say it. You don't love me anymore. When both of us know it, I'll stop calling." Justin was silent. He heard his own sigh as static over the line. "_Say it_."

"I don't love you anymore."

The dial tone in his ears was louder than he remembered.

Debbie knocked on the door, pulling Justin from his past. She entered with a plate of cookies and a big mug of milk. Justin stepped back and looked at his canvas. He blinked. All of the pain, frustration, anger, love, everything; all of the darkness and strain he'd been feeling and carrying all of those years was splayed on the canvas, his heart bleeding into his art for all to see. He turned it away from Debbie's view. It wasn't done yet, and he didn't want her to see it anyway.

She set the plate and mug down on the dresser and turned to him.

"How'd it go with Brian?"

"He got pissed at me and kicked me out. I expected as much, I think."

"So you're just going to leave?"

"I don't know. No. I…I'm not going to let him fucking die." She nodded and he sank down onto the bed, his head in his hands, a feeling of helplessness spreading in his gut. "But I don't know what the fuck to do!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Wow this one took forever. Like I said, the plot for this one is only very rough, and I'm just sort of rolling with whatever my mind puts up here. So I really dont know what exactly is going to happen each time. Also, I've been off being a counselor at a summer camp. So I was computer-less for a while.**

* * *

As he sat with his head in his hands, Debbie rubbing his back gently, trying to comfort, Justin realized that over the years he ands Brian had switched places. Justin had always been the one to walk away, to leave with uncertainty as to whether or not he'd return, but now he was also doing Brian's part. He was the one who had pushed Brian off that huge cliff to the end of their relationship. Brian had been waiting for him, like always, but he had also been the one that was hanging on, that was rooting for them and pushing to keep their relationship alive. But Justin had pushed him off a cliff, and not for Brian's own good, but for his own.

Brian had been the one gripping tightly to the crumbling stone of their affection, trying with all he had to stay alive and stay loved and in love. Brian had been the one doing what had always been Justin's job, the job of staying a real couple. They had really and truly switched places. Justin wondered now, what he could do.

"Sunshine?" Debbie's soft voice cut through his thoughts, and he realized suddenly that he was breathing heavily through barely held back tears. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know how to get him back. I don't know what to do."

"Justin, you were always a persistent little fucker. Just keep going. Keep trying. Like you did when you were seventeen. You knew you'd get your man, and you did."

"Yeah, but now I don't know. What would I have done when I was seventeen? Debbie, what would I have done?"

"You would have kept coming back, Sweetie, don't you remember? That's what amazed me about you. Every time he pushed you away or something happened between you two, you always returned to him, you always were there, waiting for him and you wouldn't leave no matter how hard he pushed you."

"You're wrong, Deb. I left him. I left him too many times. He was the one who was always there and always waiting."

"It doesn't matter. Do what you would have done years ago. Don't let him go. Be persistent and don't give up. Do whatever it takes."

Justin nodded. Whatever it took. He could try. He'd have to try. He gave Debbie a firm hug. She patted him on the cheek and left the cookies on the table, shutting the door and leaving him to stare contemplatively at his newest painting.

* * *

When he finally left the room and made his way downstairs, his bag over his shoulder, Debbie gave him a kiss and patted his cheek.

"I'm going over there. I don't know what I'm going to do, but I'll try."

"Good luck, Sunshine."

"I'll need it." He gave her a smile, rueful smile and left, plodding off to grocery store and then the loft. He needed to do what his seventeen-year-old self would have done. He needed to be persistent, not give up, and not let Brian shut him out or push him away. He needed to push Brian to get treatment and get better. He needed….he needed to show Brian that he still loved him.

He sighed, and thought back to the way he had been before New York, before the bombing, before things had gone wrong. He remembered the way he followed and pursued Brian, going to the bars and clubs he went to, wiggling his way into his circle of close friends and becoming one of those close friends himself, maybe even one of the closest. He remembered conversations on warm, lazy Sunday afternoons, deep and meaningful, about philosophy and rights, politics and books. He remembered the way he would have done absolutely anything for Brian, including risk his own life to keep him from being prosecuted for sexual harassment, or go behind his current boyfriend's back to help him out. He remembered helping him with anything he could, and not leaving or queening out when Brian said awful things to him or tried to push him overboard or tried to get rid of him.

He remembered _knowing_, an instinct or inherent perception, of Brian's unspoken yet extremely dysfunctional and unusually intense, tender love for him. He remembered, even after such a struggle, his power over Brian, the fact that he was the one person who could cut him to the bone; he could flay Brian alive, tear his heart out and twist his fingers deep into the wound and Brian would stand there, defenseless, and take it, staring at him with large, aching hazel eyes because Justin was the only one to which he was completely and utterly exposed and vulnerable, and he couldn't close himself off because his heart had been taken by the younger man, and Brian wasn't willing to risk the pain of taking it back. So he'd left it with Justin and walked away.

And Justin had gone ahead and torn that heart to pieces and left it in the dirt, alone and despairing. Emmett, Ted, Michael, even Debbie and his mother, they'd all had someone in their lives who they loved and who loved them back, who they could take care of and need. And Brian had needed Justin, and had tried to take care of him. But Justin had left him alone and hurting in Pittsburgh, surrounded by people who loved him but didn't love him enough, didn't love him with all of their hearts enough to help him through the pain and torment of each hour and day of empty loneliness.

Justin had to mend that now. He had to. He needed to let Brian know that he still cared for him, that he still needed him. He punched in the code to Brian's building and headed up the stairs.

He knocked on the door with his free hand, but there was no answer. A flash of fear ran cold up his spine, making him shiver and a tingling tightness make its way up his back to clench tightly at his head. He unlocked the door and pulled it open. Stepping inside, he peered about and called Brian's name. Silence responded; there was no one home. He rolled his eyes as he realized he should've expected that. It was eleven-thirty on a Tuesday morning. Brian was probably at Kinnetic.

Justin closed the door, put his groceries down on the counter and began to wander around the loft, taking in the changes from the last time he was here, and the things that had stayed. And noting the little things. His painting on the wall, the one that was so purely _them_, visible through the pain and intensity of each brushstroke, hanging where the Naked Man used to be. He wandered over to the small shelves by Brian's bedroom and opened one, peering in. All the books he remembered were there, along with a small black binder. He opened it, and his eyes widened, a gasp caught in his throat. Inside was every single newspaper or magazine or internet article about him or his art or a show he was in, carefully clipped or printed and preserved in plastic sleeves. He bit his lip and put the binder back.

He began to walk around again, looking at everything. On the small glass shelf by Brian's computer were pictures of the "family," and of Gus as he grew. But a small collection of photos were lumped together a little apart from the others. And they were all of Justin, smiling or working or playing with Gus. The glass inside the frames were smeared with fingerprints. Justin heaved out a sigh and ran a hand through his hair.

The kitchen was still the same, but there was almost no food in the fridge or the cupboards. Although the last cupboard Justin opened had some ridiculously sugary, fruit-flavored cereal that, upon examination, seemed to have expired about seven or eight years ago. He put it back.

He poked his head into the bathroom and found that nothing had been changed. He wasn't surprised; Brian adored that shower. He sat down on the end of the bed, glancing around. He remembered the last time he'd been here and truly felt at home. It had been another sad day. He remembered the loss in Brian's eyes as they'd kissed and fucked for what they thought might have been the last time. He knew that Brian loved him more than anything, and yet he left anyway.

Out of the corner of his eye, something that clashed brightly with the dark blue of the bed sheets caught Justin's attention. He got up and moved to what had long ago been his side of the bed. Balled up beside the pillow, practically shoved down between the mattress and the bed frame, was a red jacket with threadbare sleeves, a jacket he'd worn for years until he'd forgotten to take it with him back to New York, a jacket he'd owned since he was in high school and never thrown away. It was creased, like it had been folded and unfolded and then crumpled and uncrumpled dozens of times. Justin spread it out on his old pillow and stared at it. A small, strangled noise pushed its way out of his throat. He'd had no idea just how much pain Brian had been in after he left. Now it was hitting him hard, squeezing his heart and making him wish he could take everything back and start over from before he left.

He pushed the shirt back into its place and lay down where it had just been. He closed his eyes, but they flew open again as he recognized a box sitting unopened in a corner. It was the first thing Brian had ever bought for him when he moved to New York.

Like most summers in New York, it had been sweltering hot. Brian had come to visit a few times, but he refused to brave the heat just for a fuck. Justin couldn't come home because of his job, but had promised to come down sometime soon. Stuck in his new shitty apartment without air conditioning, he'd complained to Brian about the blistering temperature.

"See?" Brian said. "That's why I told you I'm not going up there. No way am I going to stand both of us bitching about the New York heat."

"At least you'd take us to a hotel." Justin grumbled. "I just have a cramped, overheated apartment that shouldn't really even be called an apartment."

A few days later, a package had arrived for him. He recognized the handwriting as Brian's. Opening it, he found a fancy multi-settings fan. With a snarl, he immediately wrapped it back up, scribbled out his own address and wrote Brian's, and shoved it back to the UPS guy. He'd called Brian, pacing angrily across the floor.

"Kinney."

"I don't need your fucking charity, Brian. You don't need to buy shit for me, okay?"

"Justin, I—" But Justin was on a roll.

"Look, I came here to make my own way in the world. I told you that. I don't need your help, or your money. I can take care of myself, Brian. I don't need you to do it for me. I'm not your fucking kept boy. So quit buying me shit. I'm not seventeen anymore. Jesus."

He hung up the phone without letting Brian respond, then turned off his cell phone. He'd gotten an email the next day.

_Justin-_

_What the hell was that all about? I was trying to send you something you could use. It's sitting here in the loft if you ever want it. Just tell me and I'll send it. Take care, Sunshine._

_-B_

Justin sighed, lying back on the pillow and scrubbing a hand over his face. Brian had just tried to help him, and what had he done? Pushed him away over one silly little fan. He couldn't believe after eight years Brian would still have the stupid thing.

He imagined Brian sitting in his office after that angry call, staring at the phone in his hand, the dial tone still screaming at him to hang up. He imagined the man's hurt, confused expression, the need to help and love Justin the way he'd always wanted to be loved simmering beneath his skin. He imagined Brian sliding into bed every night, glancing at the box in the corner, maybe looking at the articles about "New Artist Justin Taylor", pulling the red shirt from its hiding place and holding it to his chest, pressing it to his face and inhaling the scent of his lover, hoping it wouldn't fade, clutching the pillow on Justin's side of the bed, imagining that it was a warm, solid body. It made Justin's heart hurt, more so because he had a feeling that his imagination was probably right. He closed his eyes to the package from the past and drifted off to sleep.

He awoke with a start from a strange dream that involved Ethan, Michael, Mel, Cody and Lindsay grabbing him by the arms and pulling him away from the loft, kicking and screaming, and throwing him over a cliff to a dark pit as soon as he'd stopped struggling and tried to reason with them. The sound when he'd hit the floor of the hole had sounded like a wooden bat on bone. He'd jerked upright, breathing hard.

He shook his head and got up, stepping into the bathroom and splashing cold water on his face. He stared at himself in the mirror. He looked older, more weary. But he also looked broken, lost, like a piece of himself was left somewhere and he hadn't been able to find it again. His eyes were colder than before, the bags underneath them darker and deeper. His face was a little scruffier from not shaving for a few days, and he knew for a fact that his smile, when he did smile, was not as bright as it had once been.

He glanced into the bedroom towards the clock. It was almost five-thirty. He'd slept a long time; Brian should be getting home soon. Stepping out of the bathroom, he sat down on the couch, staring out the window at the buildings below.

The whirring of the elevator broke him from his zoned out thoughts, and he braced himself for Brian's reaction as he listened to the heavy door slide open.

Brian looked exhausted, his shoulders slumped and circles darkening around his eyes. His former lover glanced around the room, noticed him on the couch. They held each other's gaze for a moment, memories and heat, regrets and pain and need and some intense unnamable emotion crackling between them. Justin felt frozen in place by the aching stare.

He was the one to break the eye contact, feeling flayed and guilty, pinned to the wall by the intense hazel gaze. The memories from the last ten years burned bright in Brian's eyes, as much as Justin had tried to forget their life together, Brian's gaze forced every sense memory to the front of his mind, and he didn't know how to feel. His entire life, who he was, had been shaped by Brian and his experiences with Brian. He looked away, afraid of what he might feel if he stared too long. Brian turned away from him to the kitchen.

"What are you doing here?" Brian asked wearily, dropping his briefcase on the counter and heading towards the bedroom, tugging at his tie. Justin got up off the couch and approached doorway, noting the way Brian avoided taking off anything but his tie and shoes with Justin looking at him.

"Making you dinner."

Brian shrugged. "All right."

Justin frowned. Brian had put up less of a fight than expected. And he hadn't even questioned how long he'd been there or what he'd seen. Justin glanced at Brian one more time before stepping back toward the sparse, pristine kitchen.

He pulled out his groceries and began cooking, wondering if Brian would even eat what he made. Keeping his head down, he glanced over toward the bedroom and stifled a small gasp. Brian had pulled off his shirt, and was in the process of pulling off his slacks. Justin could see that he was much too thin, his ribs sticking out, his belly looking much too skinny, his hips bony. No longer was he healthily lean, more muscle than fat. Tears sprang to Justin's eyes, and the visual evidence of Brian's ill health made him scared and nauseous. Justin looked back to the meal he was preparing before Brian could see him. He made his decision then. He was going to do whatever it took to make Brian better.

Brian sat on the couch, flipping through channels on the television as Justin made dinner. The younger man threw furtive glances at him every so often. When food was ready, he set it out on the dining table, calling to Brian, who turned off the television and joined him, plopping apathetically into the chair.

Justin remembered when he used to make dinner for Brian every so often. Brian would complain and complain, griping about how he could be at Babylon right now, or how Thai was so much quicker, instead of sitting tiredly down and eating it complacently without a word.

They ate in complete silence, and that made Justin ache. He remembered dinners together when they'd talk about anything, everything, whatever popped in their heads. He remembered Brian mentioned one night when they were stoned, that Justin was a better best friend than Michael sometimes, because he couldn't really talk to Michael about anything remotely intellectual. He had told him that Michael was only interested in comic books, like he was stuck being fifteen years old, he told him that he had to dumb his words down for Michael sometimes, that it was great to have an intellectual equal to hang out with sometimes. That compliment had made Justin glow and smile sunshine for a month.

They finished dinner, still silent. Brian got up and went back the couch, pulling a book from his shelf and flipping it open. Justin cleared the table and washed the dishes. If it wasn't so tense and awkwardly silent, Justin could have imagined it was nine or ten years ago, and he was making dinner for them before Woody's. He finished with the dishes and dried his hands. Brian looked over.

"You're done now?" Justin nodded. "Good. Now you can go. You really don't need to do these things for me. I'm a big boy. I can make my own dinner and I can piss by myself."

Brian had tricked him. But Justin decided not to be intimidated or affected. He was not going to leave just because Brian tried to push him by being a total dick. "Fuck you, Brian. I'm staying here. I don't care what you say."

"Get the fuck out. I don't need you or your pity. Seriously, I lived without you for eight years. I can do just fine by myself now. Go away. Go back to New York, go back to whatever boyfriend you've got." He spat the word 'boyfriend' out like it burned. "Go back to your successful life. Leave me alone. Go back to your awesome life in the big city."

"Fuck you, Brian! I came back here for you!"

Brian's eyes flashed pain and anger. "I know! You shouldn't have. You don't love me any more, you said it yourself. You left. You don't need me anymore, and much as I would like to say that I don't give a shit, I do, I give a very big shit, and I don't need you around to remind me. So go the fuck away." Brian's face suddenly blanked, his eyes widening, startled, then his expression wiping away into an emotionless mask.

Justin didn't have an answer for that. It was a huge admission, thrown out in the heat of the moment. He'd thought Brian had suddenly disappeared, that some empty, apathetic shell had taken over and Brian no longer cared anymore. He was wrong; Brian was the way he usually was, hiding how much he cared in anger or apathy or confrontations.

Brian got up without a word and went to the bedroom. He pulled off his clothes and got silently into his bed, rolling onto his right side so his back was to Justin. The blonde watched him for a long time, wondering how much Brian had really lost, how much time he'd spent aching for him the way Justin had not. He wondered whether Brian hadn't been able to cover up or shove away or forget about the aching loss the way he himself had. He lay down on the couch and stared up at the ceiling, wishing his brain wouldn't force him to think of these things. He soon fell asleep, though he tossed and turned on the white couch that he remembered still held the sensation of Brian sliding inside him, tears mingling with tears on both their cheeks as they said goodbye to what had been something magical and almost impossible.

Justin dreamed of the days after the Stockwell incident, when he and Brian had known exactly who and what and where they were. When they were comfortable with each other, when Brian was perfectly alright with pulling him close and nuzzling his face lovingly in public, when he didn't give as much of a shit about his badass image, when the poverty they faced brought them together as partners. He dreamed of Brian's quiet smiles, of their days together lounging on pillows on the floor and reading books that Brian hadn't sold. He remembered some of the best fucks during that time. He remembered the love that was obvious in Brian's eyes, the fact that Justin didn't really see it even though Brian never even hid it.

He woke with a small start, still silent, and turned a little on his side to see Brian staring out the dark window, across the buildings and into the night. Justin guessed it was probably about three AM. Brian was shirtless, but his arms were slightly wrapped around himself. He sighed, and Justin could see his ribs. He could see in the slump of his shoulders, in the dullness of his gaze, that Brian had given up, and he wasn't going to fight this sickness. He could see that Brian thought he had nothing left to live for. He huffed a small sigh, he'd already decided that he wasn't going to let Brian die. Now he had to convince Brian to help himself. But it was so hard because he didn't even know how to help his former lover. He didn't know what to say or do to keep Brian hoping and living, because he'd seemed to have changed, so much more than Brian had, and he no longer knew how to read Brian, or even how to read himself.


End file.
